Erasing Musical Boundaries

The Calais Experience - Oct. 30-Nov 2, 1996

Not at all what one might imagine, Calais is the point of France that is the closest to the UK. It is where the Ferry's land as they cross the Channel. (That would be the English Channel). I arrived yesterday, Wednesday, Oct. 30th after boarding the Ferry at Dover (maybe you've heard of their White Cliffs?)

The train to Dover from Wimbledon is much different than those I am used to, once I found it (who would have thought Waterloo Station had an East Wing) I jumped in ready for a new adventure. Sixty minutes fly by and I start looking for signs at the train stops for the one that says 'DOVER'... but hey, this is my life and par for the course, THERE ARE NO SIGNS!!! The train stopped, I know I must be close, I'm hanging out the window, yelling to the person hanging out the window 2 cars ahead, 'Do you know what stop this is?' She is yelling back something that is not Dover but I am not convinced this stranger has my best interest in mind. The train Assistant is heading my way, he doesn't look happy and he's yelling at me to get back in the window. I wont. I wait for him to get closer to me, 'Is this Dover?' 'NEXT STOP' he barks and he kicks the door I am standing in front of (to ensure safe closure?).

I sit back and laugh. Sometimes I really enjoy playing the young and helpless foreigner for all it's worth, even if I do embarrass myself in the process. Guess I caught him at the end of his shift.

Got to Dover, followed the signs to the complimentary ferry bus I was promised and stood on the corner amidst the retirees who would be accompanying me. Luckily I noticed the sign that said the next bus wasn't for 30 minutes. 'But My Ferry is in 45 minutes' I whine out loud as if I was talking to someone who cared. Now I am really, really sorry that I brought everything I owned with me as I made my way around the block to the front of the building. The innocent taxi drivers were lined up waiting for their next fare, I grabbed the first one by the collar and said 'you have 10 minutes to get me to the ferry'. He obliged. (I am not always the young and helpless foreigner).

It was a gorgeous day to be on the water, bright, sunny and 60 degrees. The Ferry was very impressive it was like a cruise ship, shops and restaurants everywhere. (You are right, I have never been on a cruise but this is what I would imagine them to be like.) I found a seat out of the way dropped all my worldly possessions and pulled out some work. 1 1/2 hours later we pull into Calais de-board the ship and are put onto another complimentary bus where we are told we will be taken to immigration and then into town. Immigration is an empty one floor building which might as well have been a circus tent, there were cleaning people scrubbing the floor, to impress the tourists I suppose. I would have been more impressed if someone looked at my passport before letting me loose to wander the French streets but they didn't.

The bus to town makes 2 stops and forces everyone off and into the street but not before passing a sign I understand to mean my hotel is in the other direction. I follow the lost herd of people across the street and wonder why none of the gentlemen offer to help me with my bags which are obviously too heavy for this young and helpless foreigner. Then I remember I am in Europe and gentlemen are few and far between, I continue to pretend I've lost control of the over stuffed canvases and accidentally knock them into anyone who gets in my way without pardoning themselves. While my bus load of luggage free friends stood in a circle looking for a leader (wish I could stay and help) I jumped in the only taxi I saw and thought I pronounced the name of my hotel. Having been in France only once before I humbly understood the ride could not begin before the Frenchman corrected my accent.

Unaware that everything I saw from the taxi window was all there was to see in Calais, my excitement was still misplaced when we arrived at The Hotel Fimotel. The young girl at the desk gave me my key and told me which floor my room was on, I gave her the infamous foreign smug smile and ignorant nod. I got off on every floor until I found my room and I missed Donna's linguistic prowess already.

Not a bad room, I changed into my shorts and got ready for a run.

But first the hotel ritual of taking the humongous room key off it's humongous key ring and slipping it onto the chain hanging from my pocket size mace. This will become my constant companion while in the strange city. Of course I could do more damage with the key ring itself than with the mace but it is too heavy and awkward to carry while running. Mike has to constantly remind me that the self defence weapon is illegal and should be kept hidden, but I don't think twice about it being in clear view when I take it out of my pocket and lay it on a table or something, certain that no one in their right mind would blame me for wanting to be prepared to defend myself even if it is illegal. Of course this is not true, I could get into big trouble I suppose. You don't really think about these things until they quite literally apply to you. I have actually matured into the belief that there is nothing in the world as important as our personal rights especially those to defend ourselves. I go out for my run armed with little less than a full sense of security.

My run confirms that there is nothing in Calais but a Ferry port and, as Donna and I found in Paris, an over abundance of store fronts filled with trendy eye glass frames. Of course as one might imagine in a port city the smells of the fresh fish markets fills the streets. Pretty gross when you're running.

When tired and sweaty I stopped to do the window shopping thing and got lots of funny looks due to my shorts since the sun had now gone down. I love drawing attention to myself. I especially love going into clothing stores after a workout and watching them worry that I might actually try on their precious inventory in my smelly state.

Ready for my first dinner out in Calais. But the seedy cafes seemed unappetising so I walked into the local pizza joint and asked the French dough thrower if he understood English. 'Parlez-vous Anglais?'

He says 'no'. I am not deterred, how hard could it be to ask for 2 slices? He gets way too excited and I quickly try to correct the interaction which led him to believe he had sold 2 large pies.

I ended up taking 1 pie and a warm soda.

Thursday

Slept in on Thursday so I didn't get out till 1:00 p.m., but the entire Continent closes down for a type of siesta from 12:00 - 2:00 so I went on the historical walking tour I found written up at the hotel. You'd be surprised how difficult it is to read a map in a foreign language. It led me to the Sports Center (which strangely resembled an old Boy Scout camp that hadn't seen the boys in a while) and up the canal where the fishing boats hang out. All the landmarks made it apparent I was on the right track. But I was on my own when I read the part about heading 'West' from here. (obviously written by a man.) I HATE when they do that! I'm in a foreign city, there is no sun in the sky, I can't understand the traffic signs, HOW THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW WHICH WAY IS WEST!? I managed to find the Light House and the Notre Dame of Calais despite my tour guide, then found a pub where I could get a cappuccino for lunch and study my French phrase book.

Spent the rest of the day shopping for gifts for Donna, Kathy, Karyn, Joyce, Mom and Jen. No running today.

I decide dinner will be a safer choice tonight and head to the grocery store. Didn't know what I was looking for exactly but once I got to the wine section it seemed only appropriate to make my second night in France one of red wine and cheese. I spent a few minutes looking for a screw cap but decided the Wal-Mart style store should have cork screws and I picked up a medium priced bottle of Bordeaux, grabbed the smallest slab of Brie, which was not small, and some water crackers. Of course the last item was a bag of 20 plastic knives. Hopefully the people behind me at the check out would imagine I was having a party and not assume that I was planning on eating and drinking this all myself in my lonely hotel room.

My hotel boasts American TV but I consider myself lucky to find BBC in my room. (British Communication). Talked to Mike tonight. I called him after a really, really funny game show I was watching. You know it's pretty bad when you are alone in a hotel room in France, 8:00 at night, swigging cheap grocery store wine from the bottle and laughing out loud at British television which on a good day is not funny.

As you know, things are never quite as funny when you try and explain them second hand & I'm notoriously terrible at telling funny stories so when Mike called he does his best to laugh with me as I explain the stupid skit I just saw, finally he can take no more pretending and says,

"Babe, are you drunk?"

"Oh yea, I guess I could be."

"I thought so."

I tried to re-assure him of the validity of the humour as I secretly checked the level of wine left in the bottle. Do you know how difficult it is to realise you are getting drunk when you are drinking alone? My only clue would have been the loss of balance every time I had to jump on the bed to change the volume on the TV (it was hanging from the ceiling). The remote was dead the first night, the second night it was dead too. I'm embarrassed to say I continued to try it.

Friday

It was a beautiful sunny day, 13 degrees centigrade, (multiply by 1.8 and add 32 to get more familiar fahrenheit degrees). John Tovar called today to say he got my permit from immigration and would be bringing it to me tomorrow morning personally because they can't find a courier that would come on the weekends. I bet they couldn't pay a courier enough to come to Calais no matter what day of the week it was. He didn't apologize for calling so early. I went for a run upon rolling out of bed but it was really difficult. Probably because I didn't stretch and was barely awake but it might have been the wine and cheese weighing me down. I ran in a different direction today, out of the city and into the burbs. They were pretty run down. The one and two level row houses along the main road look across to a barren field cut in half by active train tracks. They look more like abandoned store fronts, the only sign betraying the cozy life inside is the omnipresent lace hanging in the windows. Calais is apparently known for it's lace factory, they are opening a lace museum. Yipee. That will certainly be something to come back for. The few people I did see responded positively (I think), when I said 'Bonjour'. The French people pass the comparison test since their mere acknowledgement is more than I ever found in England. I allowed my ego to puff as I noticed the stares I received, preferring to chalk it up to my bare, pale legs, (unshaven since I am in France) rather than the more appropriate reason that these people have never seen anyone run through their streets before. I make it an extra long run since I keep stopping to walk (I should have stretched, I shouldn't have drank the wine, I should have stayed in bed).

Lunch is cappuccino like yesterday, more work at the pub and a bit of French phrase studying. No more excuses, I am going to use my French. I ask the waiter if he understands English 'Parlez-vous Anglais?'

'A little'. They all say that. Now he has been warned, if he is smart he will realise that if he laughs at me he will get no tip.

'J'en voudrais Cappuccino sil vo plais'. I must be getting better, I got a cappuccino.

I worked in the velvet booth until 2:00 when the stores would be re-opening from their afternoon siesta. They are not open yet, maybe it's longer on Fridays. I walk, window shop and take pictures for a few hours. It's 4:00 and the stores are all still closed. Why does this not seem to phase anyone but me? Maybe because I am the only person in this god-forsaken town. I have quite possibly been chosen to play the lead role in a remake of The Man from Amega.

I almost buy a ticket to see a movie but realize just in time I wouldn't have been able to understand it. How pissed would I have been? How do you say 'I want my money back' in French?

Past the cinema there was a County Fair style merry go round spinning in a large empty parking lot, obviously another movie prop. Luckily it's not one with those scary horses that always pop into your nightmares, it has little seats on it and other things for kids to hang onto but it's nakedness makes the absence of children in this town conspicuous. I take some pictures of the stark figure because it looks very out of place and may make good photographic composition.

I pretty much decided what to buy everyone as I window shopped, I cut my gift list considerably...just me and Donna (her birthday is coming up). If only the stores would re-open so I could spend my as of yet unearned paychecks. Actually they are earned, I am just not in receipt of any money. There is a big difference.

I have been looking for a new watch for a few months now and can't find any I like. Did I mention I have this fear of commitment? I promised myself as a reward for obtaining my work permit I would pick one out in France. On reflection I decided trying to communicate watch features and guarantees in broken French might not be my smartest purchase. That decision guaranteed my find. It's a man's watch, gold and silver toned, made in Paris (a key) and I'm pretty sure I was promised it was water resistant. Anyway, it is unique enough to fit the bill and cheap enough that I wouldn't have to kill myself if it turned out to be a lemon. (Mike seems to disagree that the 799 French Francs (£160) would not be grounds for suicide).

Well it's the only store without a Friday siesta and the salesman seems to speak decent English.

Once again to my horror, I've not even reached my 30th birthday and am reminded of the inevitable destiny that awaits me. I am becoming my mother. Yes, I am standing in the jewellery store, YELLING AT THE SALESMAN. My mother has survived incessant teasing for mistaking those for whom English is a second language, as being deaf. Her belief that heightened decibals of the voice actually cut through the language barrier must be hereditary. I wonder if she started doing that just before her 30th birthday. I will never tease her again.

It's 8:45 p.m. Friday according to my new French watch, a late night out for this big city. I'm in a small semi-seedy cafe across from my hotel. The only thing appetising and familiar on the menu is the assortment of cheeses and red wine. Been a while since I had that anyway.

I ask the bitchy waitress my favourite question, 'Parlez-vous anglais?'

The standard reply, 'A little'. She is considered warned. In my best French I ask for a menu. 'Puis-je avoir la carte?' She stares at me blankly, I say it in English and she moves to get me one. Pretty embarrassing when a French person understands English better than your attempt at French. Apparently I am passed off on the handsome waiter who speaks and understands English very well. I am not to be discouraged. I order my wine and cheese in French, (I expanded my repertoire today to include the words 'I would like...'), He obviously understands me and I am just soooo pleased. Maybe the waitress I had in the beginning wasn't French at all

I ask for a cappuccino to end my meal. It's really, really bad. I decide to try and figure out how to say 'Can I have more sugar (for this really, really bad cappuccino). It takes me 10 minutes and 1/2 cup to get up my nerve to try the new request out loud without looking at it in my phrase book. Jean Pierre, oblivious to my fragile state stifles a laugh and decides to play the smart ass, 'Combien?'

(I'm pretty sure that means 'how many' so I say 'forget it Brie brain' and dump the rest of it on his head.)

I say 'une' (one) he corrects my accent and tosses me one. He is not as handsome as I thought he was.

Saturday

John called again early this morning, he didn't apologise. He is coming at 3:00 and I will go back with him on the Ferry, it will be nice to have someone to help me carry my bags. I packed hurriedly so I could go buy the rest of my gifts before the 12:00 siesta begins. Decided a lace doily would be nice for Mom since they are made here and they always remind me of her. I think it might be something she'd really appreciate. She can be hard to buy for, nothing knick-knacky, they are just something more to dust she always said Nothing easier to clean than a doily. I decide to buy one for myself too. I think it would be nice for us to have something the same. A strange kind of bonding I guess. Sometimes I am such a girl!

So I'm trying to communicate with the doily sales lady, I prep her with my question, 'Parlez -vous Anglais?' 'A little'. After what seems like an over reaction of inner turmoil I decide which two I will take. It's my last day and I am out of energy, I point to what I want. I have become very indecisive in my old age, (did I tell you I have a fear of commitment?). But this is a big deal, the doilies should be similar enough that their is an obvious connection between mine and Mom's but also something that looks a little different than those you might find everywhere else. The clerk charges my credit card, obtains my autograph and starts to pack up my treasures when she realises she has charged me for one wrong doily. I stay calm and try to get her to understand she just needs to credit my card and re-charge it. She says 'she can't do that', I'm sure this means she doesn't know how to do that. She asks if I want the other doily that she has mistakenly charged me for rather than the one I picked out. Normally this is where I would display my easy going style and say 'sure' to alleviate any problems. But this is for my Mom.

I say 'No'. The store is now filled with people waiting for the flustered clerk's attention and she is looking at me to fix this situation. Of course I will but first I enjoy watching her sweat a little and all the people looking at me like 'the foreigner causing trouble', this is actually kind of fun. I find myself trying to fight back the condemning thought that if she can't speak and understand English she shouldn't be working in a tourist town. Now I hate myself.

I offer cash to even out our transaction, the mention of cash relieves her and we are done. I leave the store knowing the patrons will exchange non-flattering talk about me and the country of egomaniacs I represent to them.

I found these great candles yesterday but as you recall there was a conspiracy and the store clerks never returned to their posts. I headed back to the candle store and bought the tapers which appeared to be elegantly wrapped in sheet music.

I stop to have my last cappuccino of the trip and again it tastes like gasoline. As I finish the whipped cream I am struck with the revelation that maybe the whipped cream is actually the only thing I like about cappuccino. That would explain why I think no one makes it right and it never tastes good. Maybe I should just start asking for a cup of whipped cream with a cinnamon stick.

It's almost 3:30 and John isn't here yet. Of course even if he was I wouldn't know it since I have no idea what he looks like. If he's anything like he sounds on the phone he is really big and ugly. I think he is coming now.

He is not big, he is absolutely the largest man I have ever seen without being fat, and not so ugly as he is weird looking. I am more nervous about his expectations of me, certain he is anxious to meet the American lady who asked him to run immigration interference and jump through flaming unethical hoops for her. I think he is unimpressed, probably because of my less than efficient packing skills. I explained that my 3 bags were not all due to my simple less-is-more sense of style but included an extensive camera kit and all my running stuff, (that would be some extra underwear and a pair of sneakers), and then there are all those doilies.

The ferry ride back was pretty rough and I was getting ill but I would not let the giant man know that. Back at Dover, getting through immigration is a piece of cake and the ride home is silent and uneventful. I will have to send John a Thank you card. He pulled off a pretty tough feat even by his own admission and went out of his way for a young helpless foreigner.